The Fourth Sacrifice tct-2

by Peter May

  Then he saw the envelope on the bedside table, his name written on it in his sister’s hand. He freed an arm from Xinxin’s grasp and tore it open with trembling fingers. ‘Li Yan,’ it said. ‘Please forgive me. I know you will do what is best for Xinxin. I have gone to the home of a friend in Annhui Province to have my baby boy. No one knows me there, so there will be no trouble. All my love, Xiao Ling.’

  CHAPTER FIVE

  I

  An occasional cluster of distant lights broke the endless stream of darkness outside the window as their train ploughed slowly but surely south towards the heartland of the Middle Kingdom, and its ancient capital of Xi’an. The empty champagne bottle floated on melted ice, its neck gently clunking on the rim of the bucket. A bottle of Bordeaux, a St Emilion, stood breathing on the table beside two crystal goblets. The debris of their starter, small nuggets of foie gras with salad and toast, on china plates, had been cleared away back into the hamper where a selection of exotic cheeses awaited. Michael had disappeared off to the dining car to organise their main course.

  Margaret leaned against the window, the glass cool against the champagne-induced flush of her face. Already it seemed like a lifetime since the train had left Beijing. Flashing glimpses of the floodlit station had illuminated the sky between towering new buildings as they rattled west and south through the city across a great confluence of railroad tracks. She knew she was being romanced and was enjoying every minute of it. It was flattering and exciting, and a little frightening. And it was doing her self-esteem a power of good. She had very deliberately pushed all thoughts of Li off to some distant place where he could not haunt or hurt her. She did not deserve to have to feel guilty. She had to get on with her life. And this seemed as good a starting point as any.

  The door slid open and Michael came in smiling. ‘Success,’ he said, and slipped into his seat opposite Margaret. Behind him, a pretty girl in blue uniform with a short-sleeved white blouse and black bow tie carried in a tray with two whole fish on oval plates. The smell of soy, and ginger and onion filled the compartment, rising with the steam from the fish. The girl placed the tray on the table and smiled at Michael. The girls all smiled at Michael, Margaret had noticed. Even the surly attendants who had come to check their tickets and passports. While they had glared at Margaret, their faces had lit up with wide smiles and sparkling eyes when they saw Michael. He had an easy way with women, full of charm and humour. He always made them laugh. When he spoke Chinese to them Margaret had no idea what he said, but they would invariably giggle coyly, responding to the pleasure he so clearly got from flirting with them. She knew that she should feel good about being with someone that other women found so attractive. And she did. But she also knew that it could very quickly become tiresome, breeding insecurity and jealousy.

  Michael slipped the girl a few yuan and said something that elicited a giggle before she drifted out into the corridor and slid the door shut behind her. He lifted fish forks and knives out of the hamper and passed a set to Margaret before filling her glass with the pale red St Emilion. ‘I guess the purists would say we should be drinking white with fish,’ he said. ‘But when it comes to Chinese flavours like these, I figure you need something a little more robust to hold its own.’ He raised his glass. ‘To a successful trip.’

  Margaret touched her glass to his. ‘You wouldn’t be trying to get me drunk, would you?’

  He grinned. ‘If I had to do that,’ he said, ‘it would take the fun out of the chase. Try your fish. It’s usually excellent.’

  She took a forkful of soft white flesh and crispy skin, dipping it in the juices before taking her first, tentative taste. The flavours filled her mouth, rich and spicy and sweet. ‘It’s wonderful,’ she said, and washed it over with a sip of wine. ‘So … you do this often, do you?’

  ‘I’ve made the trip a few times,’ he said. He paused before adding, ‘But this is the first time I’ve had company.’

  ‘So what’s it like?’ Margaret asked. ‘Xi’an.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Michael, his eyes widening. ‘Don’t get me started on my favourite subject or we’ll be here all night.’

  ‘We’re here all night anyway,’ Margaret said. And, then, with a twinkle, ‘Unless you had something else in mind.’

  He met her eye very directly, and held her gaze for what seemed like a very long time. The butterflies that had earlier fluttered in her breast were now swarming in her stomach, and she felt the first faint stirrings of desire. ‘Xi’an,’ he said suddenly. ‘Capital of Shaanxi Province. The beginning, and the end, of the Silk Road. Founded before the birth of Christ, and the capital of China for more than eleven hundred years. Once known as Chang’an — the city of everlasting peace — it became the city of western peace, Xi’an, more than six hundred years ago.’ And his eyes shone. ‘All my life, Margaret, I have wanted to reach out and touch the past, to feel history and run it through my fingers. Like desert sand. In Xi’an I can do all that at a single point in space and time.’

  Margaret said, ‘Yes, but do they have a McDonald’s?’ And for a moment she wondered if she had misjudged his sense of humour. Then he burst out laughing.

  ‘You know, for everything I know about Xi’an, that’s one thing that’s escaped me. They do have a Kentucky Fried Chicken, though, I can tell you that. The Colonel and I go back a long way.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear it.’ She stuffed some more fish in her mouth. ‘The fish is fantastic, by the way. Don’t think I don’t appreciate this.’ She took another sip of wine. ‘What’s the Silk Road?’

  ‘It was a trade route,’ he said, ‘covering thousands of miles across some of the most barren and inhospitable terrain in the world.’ He refilled their glasses. ‘The peoples of the Middle East and Central Asia sent great caravans of traders to bring back the mysterious silk from China. Only the Chinese knew how to make it. The route was flourishing at a time when the Chinese and Roman empires were in full bloom, each with only the vaguest notion of the other’s existence. Before the Silk Road ultimately led to Rome, the Romans thought the Chinese grew silk on trees. Their name for it was serica, and they called the people who made it the Seres, or Chinese. The silk people.’ By now he’d forgotten about his fish. ‘The thing about the Silk Road is that it brought all manner of culture and literature and religion to China. Chinese Buddhism took root in Xi’an, carried from India on ancient scriptures. At one time the old city had a population of more than two million, including foreigners from Arabia, Mongolia, India, Malaya. You will see the influence of their facial features tomorrow in the faces of the Terracotta Warriors.’

  ‘Your fish is getting cold,’ Margaret said, nodding towards his plate.

  ‘Oh. Yes.’ He awoke almost is if from some distant dream, and began attacking his fish again.

  ‘I guess that must be why you’re not married,’ she said, and he looked at her, frowning his consternation. ‘You reserve all your passion for your history and archaeology.’

  ‘Not all of it,’ he said, and took another mouthful of fish. ‘Anyway, what makes you think I’m not married?’

  Her fork paused midway to her mouth, and the piece of fish on it fell back to the plate. She blushed, caught completely unawares. He leaned forward and gently wiped her blouse with his napkin where soy had splashed from her plate. ‘That’ll stain,’ he said.

  But Margaret was oblivious. ‘You’re married?’

  ‘No.’ He shook his head. ‘Who told you that?’

  ‘You bastard!’ She grinned and blushed again, only this time with embarrassment. ‘Never?’

  ‘Never. I did live with someone for nearly ten years. She was an actress.’

  ‘Anyone I’d know?’

  ‘I doubt it. She had bit parts in movies and TV shows, but mostly she worked in theatre. She did well for a few years. We hardly saw one another. It was only when she started getting unemployed and we got to spend more time in each other’s company that the relationship started falling apart. Turns out we never
really knew one another at all. The relationship had been … how can I describe it? … convenient. But there comes a time when you look for more than that.’

  ‘And are you anywhere near finding it?’

  He shrugged. ‘Who knows? I’m still looking.’

  Their eyes held again for a few moments before hers flickered back down to her plate and she picked the final pieces of fish from the bone.

  He said, ‘What about you? I see you’re wearing a ring.’

  Her right hand went instinctively to the band of gold on her wedding finger. She wasn’t sure why she still wore it. For protection, perhaps. Men were more guarded in their approach to a woman wearing a wedding ring. ‘I was married for seven years,’ she said. ‘His name was Michael, too.’

  ‘Oh,’ he said. And she saw the colour rising on his cheeks this time. ‘I’m not sure how I’m supposed to feel about that.’

  ‘You’re not supposed to feel anything. You’re nothing like him.’

  ‘Divorced?’

  ‘Separated,’ she said. And then, after a long moment, ‘By death.’

  He was clearly shocked. ‘Oh. I’m so sorry, Margaret. I had no idea.’

  ‘Don’t be. I’m not. It’s history. And I don’t really want to talk about it.’

  They concluded their meal in silence then. Somehow a spell had been broken. Margaret declined the cheese, saying she was too full. But they finished the wine, sitting staring out into the darkness, trying to focus beyond their reflections in the glass. Margaret was angry at allowing herself to be ambushed again by the man who had already brought so much pain and misery to her life. She wondered if she would ever be able to excise him finally from her mind, to prevent him from creeping up on her when she least expected it and dumping all his misery on her once more.

  The champagne and the wine was having its effect. She felt sleepy and sad, and when Michael slipped across the compartment to sit beside her, she allowed him to pull her gently into his shoulder and close his hand around hers. It was comforting and warm, and she smelled his patchouli, and something in its musky sweetness was distantly arousing. She felt his breath on her forehead and she inclined her head to find his face very close to hers. His eyes, earnest and deep, seemed somehow filled with genuine concern, and she felt safe in his arms, and contented in a way she had not known for a long time. He lowered his head and kissed her. Not a kiss full of passion, but a long, lingering soft kiss full of care and tenderness. She responded, savouring the taste and the smell of him. She ran a hand through his fine, shiny brown hair, and was alarmed suddenly by a sexual awakening that came from somewhere deep inside her. And she remembered Li’s firm, hard body pressed into hers in that distant railway carriage.

  She pulled away, flushed and a little breathless. ‘I’m sorry, Michael. I don’t think I’m ready for this.’

  He looked at her for a long moment, then smiled and brushed her hair out of her face. ‘It’s OK, Margaret,’ he said. ‘If there’s one thing you learn as an archaeologist, it’s patience. It can be a lifetime, or a millennium, before you finally get what you’re looking for.’ He paused. ‘You tired?’ She nodded.

  He stood up and arranged her pillows at the window end of her berth, and gently swung her legs up so that she reclined along its length. She felt him removing her shoes, slowly, carefully, his fingers brushing the unstockinged skin of her ankles, the arch of her foot. And she felt a rush of desire. But it was too late now. The moment had passed, and she felt incredibly sleepy and warm as he drew the quilt over her, tucking it in around her neck. Then his lips brushing gently over hers.

  She drifted for a time, somewhere between sleep and wakefulness, aware of him clearing away the debris of their dinner before undressing, and then climbing into his berth and turning off the light.

  A final thought, as she drifted into darkness, was a tiny stabbing moment of fear that she might start snoring.

  *

  Sunlight slanted over the peaks of mountains to the east, falling in long yellow slabs through the window of their carriage as Margaret opened sleepy eyes and found Michael sitting opposite, watching her.

  ‘Good morning,’ he said. ‘We’ll be there in under an hour.’

  ‘Oh, my God,’ she sat up suddenly, remembering her final thought before drifting off to sleep the night before. ‘I wasn’t snoring, was I?’

  He shook his head and smiled. ‘Not too loudly.’

  ‘I wasn’t!’ she said.

  His smile widened. ‘That’s for me to know. But don’t worry. Your secret’s safe with me. You know I never betray a girl’s confidence. Would you like coffee?’

  ‘Talk about changing the subject!’ She grinned sheepishly. ‘I thought the Chinese only drank tea.’

  ‘They do. But I always travel equipped for any eventuality.’ He took a glass jug and a filter funnel and paper filter from the hamper and set it up on the table. He opened an airtight tin and Margaret immediately smelled fresh ground coffee — an olfactory experience that seemed as far away and long ago as the United States itself. He spooned a generous quantity of it into the filter and reached under the table for a large silver flask. He opened the top and steam exploded out of it. ‘It’s not exactly boiling,’ he said. ‘But it’ll make a passable cup or two.’

  She took her toilet bag and went to the washroom to wash the sleep from her eyes, and to brush her teeth and apply a touch of colour to her lips. She examined her face in the mirror. It was still a little puffy from sleep, and the skin was pale, so that her freckles seemed more prominent than usual. Somewhere behind her eyes were the vague traces of a hangover. She remembered the taste and the touch of Michael from the night before, and a small shiver ran through her. She was embarrassed by her reticence, but grateful that he had not pushed her. And she had a sense now, that this day that lay ahead of her could be a defining one in her life.

  When she returned, the smell of fresh coffee filled the compartment. ‘That smells wonderful,’ she said. And the taste of it and the caffeine hit kick-started her day.

  Outside, fields of cropped corn stretched away into the distance, while on the slopes of the hills that rose around them, every contour of the land had been terraced and cultivated, every feature of it man-made, carved from nature by the blood, sweat and tears of men. A blue wisp of smoke rose into the morning sky from a bonfire of dried corn stalks, an ox led by a bare-chested peasant pulled a plough through stony ground. Occasionally they passed clusters of large standing hoops of what looked like pink and white paper flowers. ‘What are these?’ Margaret asked. ‘They look like giant wreaths.’

  ‘That’s just what they are,’ Michael told her. ‘Wreaths on fresh graves, or to mark the anniversary of a death.’

  ‘I thought everyone in China was supposed to be cremated,’ Margaret said.

  ‘They’re supposed to be. The Chinese government believes burying the dead wastes fertile ground. And they are probably right. But old habits die hard.’

  He turned suddenly to business and told her that she was not to worry about her luggage when they got to Xi’an. His production company had employed a runner to pick up their bags and the hamper, and they would be met outside the station by a car and driver. They would go first to their hotel to check in, and then drive out to the museum of the Terracotta Warriors just beyond the town of Lintong, about an hour from the city. He would have to leave her with the warriors for a time while he went to conclude his business with the director of the museum, but he would see that she was in good hands.

  Gradually the fields and the rolling hills gave way to the industrial outskirts of the sprawling conurbation that was Xi’an, and within fifteen minutes their train had pulled into the station.

  Jostled and pushed by crowds anxious to be on their way, frowned at by railway staff inspecting their tickets, pursued by touts selling maps and tourist guides, they made their way across a chaotic concourse and out into the brilliant sunshine of the Xi’an morning, where a frenzied throng of passengers a
nd bicycles and vehicles was fighting its way towards the exit. The runner who had retrieved their luggage materialised from nowhere with a trolley. She looked about sixteen, and barely big enough to lift their bags. But she had managed without help.

  ‘Car by gate,’ she said. ‘You follow me.’ And they passed through narrow gates, out into a square filled with buses and flanked on one side by high-rise blocks, and on the other by the ancient crenellated city wall that rose twelve metres into the sky and ran twelve kilometres around the old city centre. A large black limousine stood purring outside the gate.

  ‘Welcome to Xi’an,’ Michael said, and Margaret felt a tiny thrill of expectation run through her.

  II

  Li watched thoughtfully as Xinxin wolfed down the lotus seed buns that he had steamed for her breakfast. She had already, it seemed, developed a taste for tea, and she washed down the sticky sweet buns with large gulps of steaming green tea from a dragon mug. It was a treat, and for the moment she had forgotten that her mother had gone, leaving her in a strange house with this stranger who was her uncle.

  Eventually, the night before, after he had calmed her down, she had slept. Xiao Ling had not even made up a story for Xinxin to explain her absence. She had simply told the child to wait in her room for her uncle. He would not be long. Xinxin had been on her own for nearly three hours before Li turned up.

  For the second night in succession Li had barely slept, and this morning had had to concoct a story about how Xiao Ling was not well, how she had had to go unexpectedly to a special hospital somewhere far away. And that Xinxin was to stay with her uncle until she returned. This had elicited a fresh burst of tears, and Xinxin had simply wailed that she wanted to go home. And home, Li had decided, was where she had to go. This was a problem for her father, not for him. He would write to him, explaining the circumstances, and tell him to come and fetch his daughter at once. But this would take time. A week, or more. And he was at a loss as to what to do with the child in the meantime. The only solution he had arrived at during long, sleepless hours, was to seek the advice of Mei Yuan. And the only problem with that was that he would have to take Xinxin with him.